The morning sun spilled reluctantly over the horizon, its pale light fighting to pierce through the heavy mists that clung to Valemont Castle. From her balcony, Lyria watched as the world below stirred awake. Servants bustled across the courtyards, soldiers drilled with weary precision, and merchants lined the outer gates with wagons of goods. Yet beneath the ordinary rhythms of dawn lay an undeniable tension, as if every brick of the castle sensed the storm she knew was brewing.
The letters from the western provinces still burned in her thoughts. Rebellion was no longer just whispered—it was scratching at the doors, begging for notice. And the king, her father, would dismiss it as nothing more than noise. He always had.
Mariel entered quietly, balancing a tray with steaming tea and a stack of parchment. "Your Grace, the council has been summoned for midday. His Majesty insists all heirs attend."
Lyria gave a faint laugh, her gaze never leaving the fog-shrouded horizon. "All heirs? Then even Adrian will crawl from his chambers."
Mariel hesitated before placing the tray down. "And Lady Selene," she added carefully.
At the mention of her half-sister, Lyria's fingers tightened around the balcony railing. Selene, with her doe-eyed innocence and carefully cultivated charm, had always been the court's darling. Where Lyria's sharp tongue earned her suspicion, Selene's false sweetness drew sympathy. But Lyria remembered the daggers hidden beneath that softness, remembered how betrayal could come dressed as affection.
"I'll be ready," Lyria said flatly.
She turned back into her chambers, the gown she had chosen laid neatly across the bed. Deep crimson, edged in black embroidery—a queen's colors, though she wore no crown. Let Selene wear her pastels and pearls; Lyria would enter the council as a storm.
As Mariel helped her dress, a knock sounded at the door. The servant stiffened, but Lyria lifted a hand in calm acknowledgment. "Enter."
The door opened, and Sir Caelen stepped inside, unannounced yet utterly composed. His presence carried the same weight as last night, though daylight sharpened the angles of his face, revealing the soldier beneath the envoy.
"You make yourself comfortable," Lyria said coolly, accepting the final clasp of her gown.
He bowed, though there was the faintest curve to his lips. "Forgive me, Princess. I thought it best to deliver this directly." He held out a sealed scroll.
Lyria took it, breaking the wax without hesitation. The script was brisk, coded, but she recognized the handwriting. It belonged to Lord Rennic, one of the wealthiest nobles in the western provinces.
The time has come. The crown weakens. Choose your side.
Lyria folded the letter before Mariel could glimpse its contents. She tucked it into her sleeve, schooling her face into polite indifference. "Your diligence is noted, Sir Caelen."
He lingered a moment longer than courtesy demanded. "The council will be watching today. Masks will be worn, but the eyes behind them will not blink. Do not underestimate them."
Lyria met his gaze steadily. "And do not underestimate me."
His answering smile was fleeting, almost approving, before he inclined his head and withdrew.
When the hour struck, the great council chamber filled with the rustle of silks, the scrape of chairs, the murmurs of lords and ladies who lived on pretense. Lyria entered with Mariel at her side, her crimson gown trailing like spilled blood across the marble. Conversations faltered. All eyes shifted to her, weighing, judging.
At the far end of the chamber, King Aldric sat upon his throne, his once-commanding presence eroded by years of complacency. Beside him stood Selene, radiant in soft blue, her every gesture crafted to inspire pity and affection. And just beyond, Adrian slouched lazily, as though the kingdom's fate were no more than an inconvenience.
Lyria approached and bowed with careful precision. "Your Majesty."
The king's tired eyes flickered toward her, then past her, as though she were merely one of many indistinguishable pieces on his board.
"The matter of unrest in the western provinces will be heard," he declared, his voice carrying more weight than his body seemed to contain.
Lyria's pulse quickened. This was her stage.
Lord Brennar rose first, his beard bristling as he spoke of "disloyal whispers" and "peasants stirred by false promises." Others chimed in, eager to dismiss the unrest as petty. But Lyria saw it for what it was: an opportunity.
When silence fell, she stood, her voice smooth yet sharp enough to cut the air. "My lords, dismissing discontent will not silence it. A fire left unattended does not burn out—it spreads. The western houses have long been neglected, their grievances ignored. If we do not act wisely, their whispers will become war cries."
Gasps fluttered through the chamber, some of surprise, others of indignation.
Selene's soft voice rose after, trembling with carefully rehearsed fragility. "Surely, Father, we must not give in to threats. To bend before them would show weakness."
The king nodded, warmed by her apparent loyalty. "Well spoken, Selene. Mercy cannot be mistaken for surrender."
Lyria clenched her jaw, forcing her expression into calm composure. The court's eyes weighed her words, their judgment forming in silence. She would not win them with passion alone. She would need proof, strategy, and allies in unexpected places.
Her gaze slid toward Sir Caelen, who stood among the observers. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes met hers, steady and unflinching. For the briefest moment, it felt as though the two of them were the only ones who saw the truth: the game had already begun, and every move now mattered.
As the council dissolved into debate, Lyria's thoughts tightened into a vow. If the court wished to bury her voice beneath Selene's sweet lies, then she would carve her words into stone.
This time, she would not be silenced. This time, she would not die.